


Hysteria

by berlynn_wohl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Doctor/Patient, Dubious Consent, M/M, Medical Kink, Medical Procedures, Prostate Massage, Roleplay, Vibrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-29
Updated: 2011-12-29
Packaged: 2017-10-28 11:03:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/307200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berlynn_wohl/pseuds/berlynn_wohl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There’s nothing to fear. I’m a doctor. It’s alright for me to touch you there.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hysteria

 

 _A/N: It is never specified whether this scene is a ludicrously naïve Sherlock being dub-conned by dark!John, or whether it’s only a perfectly consensual bit of role-playing. I purposely left it ambiguous so that you, the reader, could interpret it whichever way you prefer._

 

 

 

John knocked twice on the door, firm and rapid, then opened it without waiting for a response. He was looking down at the clipboard in his hand, not at the patient on the exam table, as he entered.

“Sherlock,” he read cheerfully off the clipboard. “And how are you today?”         

Sherlock sat hunched on the edge of the table, bony limbs poking out of a shapeless gown, crinkling the paper beneath him as he fidgeted. “Fine,” he replied in a voice that was timid to the point where he sounded polite.

“I’ve had a look at your file. You told the nurse you weren’t feeling well, but I see here you’ve not got a fever, your blood pressure is low-normal, you get lots of exercise…lungs not so great, but my understanding is you’ve quit smoking?”

“Yes.”

John settled himself in a swivel chair and wheeled himself over to the exam table. It was a discomfiting position; the doctor, the one who was in charge, sat on a slightly-too-low chair, looking up at his patient, who was perched on the highest surface in the room, half-dressed and shivering.

“Why don’t you tell me more about the problem you’re having,” John said, absently flipping pages on the clipboard and scribbling notes.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “It started with some shortness of breath, which I attributed to the, er…”

“…smoking, yes. Go on?”

“Then I started feeling anxious, for no reason. No new stressors in my life. And also, I’ve been feeling this unpleasant heaviness, in my abdomen…”

“Can you be more specific? Is it heaviness like bloating, indigestion, cramps?”

“No, no problems with my lower GI. It’s elsewhere in my abdomen, I think. It just feels…congested.”

“Hmm. Anything else?”

“I get muscle spasms sometimes…”

John stopped writing. “Hm. I think I’m beginning to get the picture.” He stood and approached Sherlock. With firm, clinical fingers, he prodded the lymph nodes in Sherlock’s neck and his armpits. Sherlock found the warm, authoritative touch comforting, and held back a contented sigh.

John took a penlight from the pocket of his white coat, pointed it into Sherlock’s pupils first, humming vaguely at what he saw, then said, “Open for me?”

Sherlock opened his mouth, offering an excellent view of some of the vulnerable pink tissue inside his body.

“Have you ever been accused of irritability?” John asked clinically whilst he looked.

“Often.”

“How about being a trouble-maker?”

“ _More_ often.”

John unhooked the stethoscope from where it had been draped over his shoulder, and fit the ear-pieces into his ears. With one hand, he warmed the chest-piece, and with the other tugged at the top of Sherlock’s gown. It fell off one shoulder, which he had not intended to do, but it exposed Sherlock sufficiently.

“Deep breaths,” he said. Sherlock exaggeratedly puffed his chest in and out whilst John listened to his heart and lungs. After deeming the tidal noises satisfactory at the front, he nudged Sherlock to lean forward so that he could have a listen at the back. Sherlock had thought that a doctor would have put on a pair of gloves by this point; even though it was only his shoulder, it felt startlingly intimate, to be touched with bare hands.

John said nothing about the dramatic increase in Sherlock’s heart rate that he’d detected, the more he’d been touched and examined. “Experienced any loss of appetite?” he asked. “Or loss of libido?”

“Can’t lose what you never had,” Sherlock shrugged.

“Ah. Well, that confirms my suspicions.” John pulled back and stood up straight.

Sherlock’s eyes darted back and forth, searching John’s face. “What is it?”

“I’m afraid you’re suffering from hysteria.”

“Hysteria?” Sherlock had to have a laugh at that. “Doctor, I’m not a Victorian lady whose corset is too tight.”

John nodded sagely. “That’s a common misconception. Sadly, no, hysteria can affect anyone, even in this whiz-bang modern era. In fact, people are more susceptible than ever before to nervous disorders. The malady _is_ chronic, but luckily, the treatment is quite simple, and can be done right here at the surgery.”

“Must I make another appointment?” Sherlock asked. But John was already snapping on a pair of latex gloves.

“We can get you sorted right now,” John said. “It’s a simple procedure. Pelvic massage, administered manually until the patient experiences a hysterical paroxysm. It relieves the tension and drains the superfluous fluids you’re retaining. That’s what the congestion is about.”

“Is it painful?”

“Quite the contrary. Can I have you lie flat on your back, please?”

When Sherlock rotated so that he could recline lengthwise on the table, his gown rucked up and exposed his flat belly and his genitals. He self-consciously tugged it back down. A moment later, John pinched the hem of the gown and folded it back once more, seeming to take no notice of Sherlock’s semi-erect state. He palpated and percussed the four quadrants of Sherlock’s abdomen. The touches and presses were routine and methodical, but they made Sherlock’s pulse quicken; the doctor was learning about his insides, becoming intimately acquainted with his viscera.

John continued touching him, but now in a less clinical manner, gently massaging the taut and slightly fuzzy space between Sherlock’s belly button and his pubis.

“Any tenderness here?” he asked.

Sherlock found his throat dry and his tongue uncooperative. He shook his head, rather than attempt to respond verbally.

A drop of fluid appeared at the tip of Sherlock’s glans; the drop swelled, and then Sherlock squirmed at the tickling sensation as it dribbled down across the corona.

John took note of this, and excused himself to procure a square of absorbent gauze from the cupboard. He lifted Sherlock’s penis to place it underneath, over the place he’d just been massaging. He continued to rub Sherlock’s belly, then moved on to apply firm, knowledgeable touches around his hipbones, carefully skirting his genitals.

“I have one more examination to administer, and that is your prostate. I’m going to need to put you in the stirrups, I’m afraid.”

Sherlock shivered. “Is that the only way you can examine it?”

“Well, I can’t reach it through your throat, now, can I? There’s nothing to fear. I know it can feel a bit intrusive, but I’m a doctor. It’s alright for me to touch you there.”

Sherlock nodded dumbly.

The stirrups were folded up, stored beneath the surface of the table. The runners stuck a bit, so John had to pull forcefully to get them to extend, which Sherlock found alarming.

Each stirrup was lined with fleece wool. Indicating them, John said, “Place your feet in here.” His instructions were delivered with a lilt at the end, making them each sound interrogative.

John held his hand palm out at the edge of the table. “Budge up until you feel my hand.”

Sherlock arched his back and used his shoulders to propel himself forward, until he could feel the latex glove brush the back of his thighs.

John returned to the cupboard and rummaged a bit before lifting out a strange device; it was a metal cylinder about two inches thick and four inches long, with two sets of straps coming off it. Sherlock stared at it, wide-eyed.

“Oh, don’t be frightened of this little thing,” John said. “Nothing here is for internal use. But you see, pelvic massage can be a time-consuming treatment, when administered unaided. Some patients require hours to achieve a paroxysm. That’s where this fella comes in. Latest technology from Scandinavia. I’m going to strap this to my hand, and when I turn it on, it will vibrate. It expedites the process, makes it easier for both the doctor and the patient.”

John placed the device on a wheeled tray, then pushed the tray closer to the table. The tray also bore a squeeze-bottle of medical-grade lubricant.

Sherlock watched this, all the whilst lying in the stirrups, feet splayed but knees clamped together. John chuckled as he approached. “That won’t do, I’m afraid. Let your knees fall open.” He pressed the backs of his fingers to Sherlock’s calves, nudging his knees apart. With great reluctance, Sherlock allowed John to part his legs wide for him.

John could see and get at everything quite easily now. He deftly strapped the device to his hand, then squeezed some lube onto the fingers of that hand.

“You’re going to feel a little pressure when I first enter you. But I promise won’t hurt you. What you need to do is relax your muscles, and push back when you feel my finger. Just push a bit, like you would do on the toilet.”

Sherlock made a non-verbal sound of acknowledgement.

John touched just the pad of his slippery, gloved first finger to Sherlock’s anus. Before he pushed in, he had a little feel, circling the muscle, which squeezed shut despite Sherlock’s conscious efforts. He was very responsive, John noted. His thighs quivered, and the metal joints of the stirrups squeaked as he ground his heels and curled his toes.

“It’s very important that you relax. Not just here. Take a deep breath. Let your knees fall back open. The stirrups have got you, just relax your thighs. Wiggle your toes. C’mon, wiggle your toes for me” John smiled at Sherlock, and though Sherlock did not see him, his eyes being closed, he obeyed. “Better? Let’s try again.” John pushed harder this time. “Bear down, like I said. There you go, _oh yes_.” The finger slid all the way in, until John’s other knuckles were lined up with the cleft of Sherlock’s behind. As soon as it was in, Sherlock clenched tight around it, giving John an all-over shudder.

“Good job,” John said, clearing his throat. “Now I’m going to find your prostate. You may find this a bit uncomfortable, at first.”

John’s finger gently probed until he located the gland; it was smooth and healthy, about the size of an almond. When he touched it, the noise Sherlock made was urgent but ambiguous.

“That’s not painful, is it?”

“No.”

“Uncomfortable?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’m going to begin the massage now. Just relax.” With his free hand, he switched on the device, and the cylinder began to shudder. The vibrations travelled through his hand and into Sherlock’s body, directly onto his prostate. The stimulation brought his cock to full hardness, and fluid began to leak continuously from the tip, dribbling onto the gauze beneath.

Sherlock sighed when John removed his finger; he thought that the whole ordeal was over, and he was cured. But that hand soon returned, with two fingers this time. Sherlock squealed as John pressed hard with those shuddering fingertips.

“I know it feels a bit strange, but if you could try to remain quiet, I would appreciate it. We have patients in neighbouring rooms who might get anxious hearing such noise.”

Sherlock quieted, but his head rolled to and fro on the crinkling paper, and he twisting caused his gown to bunch up, exposing his goose-pimpled flesh.

John leaned over to watch the fluid oozing from Sherlock’s cock. “That’s very good. All those fluids that were built up are being drained, so you should feel some relief from that congestion that was bothering you.”

“I don’t know that it’s working,” Sherlock said. He was clutching the sides of the table to keep from squirming. “Right now I feel more tense and congested than ever.”  

“That’s actually a good sign,” John said. He let his eyes slide up to observe the sex-flush mottling Sherlock’s chest and neck. “It gets worse before it gets better. I know that sounds wrong, but you need to trust me. I’m going to add a little extra stimulation, alright? This should induce the paroxysm, which will complete the procedure.”

John’s other hand grasped Sherlock’s cock, and the faint sounds of the latex rubbing between his fingers blended with the soft sounds of Sherlock’s foreskin sliding wetly back and forth over the glans. Sherlock dug his feet into the stirrups, and his pelvis rolled and bucked up off the table.

“Oh Doctor,” Sherlock said through gritted teeth, “I think it’s coming. Ah, ah, I think I’m having one.”

Sherlock’s body was wracked with spasms and he produced a final, almost-clear spurt, then a feeble trickle, which landed on his belly as the gauze fell away. John did not relent, but continued to press until Sherlock was pumping nothing at all, and begged for an end to it. Then he slowly removed his fingers and divested himself of the device and the gloves.

“How does that feel, better?”

“Unh.” Sherlock’s eyes were glassy, his lips parted.

“Take a moment, catch your breath.”

Sherlock continued to groan and sigh for several seconds, and when he’d settled down, John took some facial tissues from the dispenser and cleaned away the semen and excess lubrication. He then gently grasped Sherlock’s ankles and took his feet out of the stirrups, one by one. He pushed the stirrups back on their runners and replaced them under the table. He disposed of the gauze pad and tugged Sherlock’s gown over his thighs. “You can sit up and get dressed now,” he said.

“How soon will I need to come back?” Sherlock said, his voice quavering.

“When your symptoms return, give me a call.”

Weakened and shaking slightly, Sherlock reached for his pile of clothes. “Is there perhaps some sort of home treatment I can perform?”

“Oh, it’s really better to come in and have a doctor do it for you.” John chose not to leave while Sherlock dressed, as he normally would do. Instead, he proudly watched a wobbly Sherlock fumble with his buttons, as any craftsman would step back to admire their handiwork.

“I see,” Sherlock whispered, looking at the floor. “Well, thank you, Doctor. I do feel much better.”

 

 


End file.
